


light it up (we won't come down)

by galactic_chiroptera



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types, The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - The Greatest Showman Fusion, M/M, Multi, other tags to come later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactic_chiroptera/pseuds/galactic_chiroptera
Summary: “Run away with me,” he whispers into Tom’s mouth one star-lit night at the beach. An empty question, full of what-ifs and never-coulds. “Let me build us a life. Come with me.”Still, Tom whispers back, “Yes,” and bowls him over to kiss him senseless.(or: the Greatest Showman AU with Tord as PT Barnum nobody asked for but you're getting anyway.)





	light it up (we won't come down)

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i could blame darkmoonwriter but this one is all on me, fam

Tord Larsin has always been a dreamer.

For better or for worse, his head has always been in the clouds. “ _Følg med_ ,” Patryk would gently scold, “We’re discussing something important.” Tord would nod, half-heartedly, and return to his daydreaming.

And oh, he liked to dream _big._ Towering, gleaming buildings of his design, crowds of people shouting his name in reverence and awe, mind-blowing wind-up automations that people would whisper in shock and admiration about. “I’m going to be something,” he would tell Paul. “Just you watch.”

“Of course you are, kid,” Paul would reply around a mouthful of smoke, and ruffle Tord’s hair.

Tord Larsin has _always_ been a dreamer, and one with a one-track mind.

Until he meets one Thomas William Rosewood, and his entire world is turned upside down.

Thomas “Call-Me-Tom” Rosewood is tall, gracefully lanky where Tord borders on bony, broad-shouldered, and has a smile that- when he chooses to- can light up a room. He’s all well-bred high-class handsome golden boy, and Tord is smitten from the moment he sees him.

He also _hates_ him.

Thomas is all smiles and polite handshakes and inclined-heads-greetings. _Tom,_ on the other hand, is the snarkiest, sassiest asshole Tord has ever met. He always has a quip for whatever Tord says to him, an eye roll for Tord’s every aggravated huff, and a story for every slip-up he makes.

Which makes Tord’s job as his commissioned tailor _very_ hard.

(Things tend to be hard when you’re torn between punching your client and letting him kiss you up against a wall. Not very professional, you see.)

Somewhere, though, in the haze of pre-teen and teenage hormones, that _hate-irritation-lust_ softens, snowballs into something gentler, bigger. Tom worms his way into Tord’s daydreams; gleaming skyscrapers become monuments dedicated to _Tom Rosewood_ (Tom, not Thomas)- those mind-boggling automations have a pair of familiar blue eyes, sparkling and set with the finest sapphires the world has to offer, awed whispers turning into love sonnets scribbled on notepaper-

(They’re 16 the first time Tom presses him up against the wall of his walk-in closet and kisses him soundly, all teeth and roaming hands and foggy windows. He’s not religious like Tom’s family, but Tord swears his soul leaves his body and ascends.)

Tord Larsin is smitten. It’s disgusting. But at least it’s mutual, which makes it a little better. “Run away with me,” he whispers into Tom’s mouth one star-lit night at the beach. An empty question, full of what-ifs and never-coulds. “Let me build us a life. Come with me.”

Still, Tom whispers back, “Yes,” and bowls him over to kiss him senseless.

That’s the night Tom’s father finds them tangled in each other’s arms, and descends on them with the fury of a summer hurricane and angry, pointed words. The next time he comes to Rosewood Manor, he finds a note of dismissal of his services, an empty room where he’d once fitted the boy he knew he loved, and a horse-drawn carriage leaving the driveway.

(He’ll never admit to Paul and Patryk how he sprinted after that carriage as far as his legs would take him before they gave out, nor the time he spent kneeling there, shouting after them until his voice was hoarse and the owner of the nearby farm came to investigate the ruckus.)

 

Paul and Patryk leave a year later, when Tord is almost 18. “The _Restauration_ was a great opportunity,” Patryk says, “and I’m glad we took it. But America just isn’t for us, _kjære.”_

_It’s not for me either,_ Tord wants to scream. _You think this place has been kind to me?_ _But I’m not leaving!_

He doesn’t say that. He just nods, pretends to be happy for them, and wonders what more this world can take away from him. They leave him a sum of money to tide him over until he can find a job, and he waves them off at the harbor a week later.

The money doesn’t last long. What he’d forgotten, it seems, is that few people want to hire a skinny, ragged-looking kid with a foreign accent. So within a month or two he’s on the streets with the rest of the drifters, relying on the kindness of strangers to earn enough for his next meal.

(He wonders sometimes, briefly, what Tom would think of him if he could see him. Instead he writes, scrounges up enough money to open a box at the post office, and sends and receives letters from him on the regular.)

Then one day, he sees an advertisement. _Bright young minds wanted for military needs,_ it reads, _Salary and boarding offered._

He packs what little belongings he has, writes Tom a letter to tell him, and goes without a second thought.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello yes comments are my life blood


End file.
